Tailcoats and Top Hats: A Tale of Gotham Nights
by Winston Smith
Summary: Bruce Wayne reminisces about Mr. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.


_Batman and associated characters and concepts are the property of DC Comics. This story is for entertainment purposes only._

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**Tailcoats and Top Hats: A Tale of Gotham Nights**

One of the wealthiest men in North America, Mr. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot had always been one of the pillars of Gotham City high society. And it was old money — the kind of money that had been acquired by the sword, and turned a man's blood blue. Most people heard the name Cobblepot and assumed it referred to a family ancestor in a lowly trade, much like Cartwright or Tanner. The truth was that sometime in the 13th century, Edgar, Duke of Chesterfield, had crushed a rebellion in Oxford by melting down every pot he could lay hand on and fashioning crude swords. Edgar the Cobblepot had become the family's greatest hero, and ultimately their namesake. It was a cold reminder of the kind of men the family held in high regard.

He'd known Mr. Cobblepot as long as he could remember. The man was apparently a school chum of Father, and though he'd been the picture of punctilious good manners, Bruce had always had the impression that there was something slightly off about him. Maybe it was because it had seemed impossible to his childish brain that a man could be fat but not jolly, could be polite but not friendly, could be intelligent but not kind. He remembered having the vague idea that Mother didn't like Mr. Cobblepot very much; for his own part he certainly hadn't been fond of the man — despite the familiarity of knowing him all his life, there'd been no affection at all. Unlike some of Father's other friends, Mr. Cobblepot never donned the honorary "uncle," and he himself had never advanced beyond "young sir."

Mr. Cobblepot worked at the State Department — he distinctly remembered that Mr. Cobblepot had sharply corrected him when he'd said that he worked _for_ the State Department. One day Bruce had asked Father if that was why Mr. Cobblepot always dressed funny. Father had smiled and answered no, that was just the way he was. Morning suits, top hats, monocles, top coats, and umbrellas. It was the first time Bruce had ever heard the word "eccentric." When he'd asked if that was why he always had a butler with sunglasses and black gloves with him, Father had simply changed the subject. Apparently he was good at his job, because he was always leaving Gotham abruptly on "special assignments."

Mr. Cobblepot had been in Europe when Bruce's parents were murdered. He'd sent flowers and a card to the funeral. It was the last time Bruce heard from him for years.

Bruce remembered when he'd gone to summer in Austria while he was studying in Europe, and learned to his surprise that Mr. Cobblepot, by then a career minister, was serving as Cultural Secretary at the American Embassy in Vienna. As a matter of form, he'd decided to pay a call on Father's old friend.

He remembered being surprised at the size of his office in the handsome white building at Boltzmanngasse 16, a well-lighted and spacious affair with an enormous desk of solid walnut framed by two windows. It was an impressive display, there was no question of that. In fact, it was a little too impressive even for a man of Mr. Cobblepot's professional stature. Why would a cultural secretary have an office fit for an ambassador?

He hadn't changed much over the years. He was still a fat old grouch who could give Churchill a run for his money. A cigarette holder still jutted from his mouth like a bowspit, perhaps to guarantee that his long aquiline nose would not be the only such feature on his face. He still squawked and waddled, still dressed like a dandy, still carried a top hat and an umbrella. A monocle was still screwed into his socket, framing his cold, narrow eye like a halo on a lump of coal. Given the hour, it'd been no surprise that he'd changed into an evening suit. His hair was a bit thinner, a bit further from his forehead than Bruce had remembered. He'd not found it politic to point this out.

Mr. Cobblepot had seemed glad to see him — so much so that he'd actually devoted more than an hour and a half to quizzing him on the status of his academics. Bruce had gotten the feeling he was being worked over by a professional, almost as though the fat man were trying to find inconsistencies in his response. Bruce hadn't expected a fond greeting, and he'd certainly not expected a Spanish inquisition. It had put him quietly on his guard; he'd quickly resolved to hold back, not to reveal the full breadth of his mind to this suspicious, cantankerous man with a too-sharp mind and a too-large office. Seemingly satisfied with the proceedings of the impromptu board of inquiry, he'd invited Bruce to dinner. Bruce furrowed his brow at discovering that cars quickly moved aside to permit his chauffeured Bentley to pass.

He'd furrowed his brow even more when he discovered that a table was always kept for the fat man at the city's most exclusive restaurant. The service was just a little too prompt, just a little to courteous for just a cultural secretary.

The food was excellent, of course. No one had ever accused Oswald Cobblepot of lacking discriminating taste. Bruce remembered the way people glanced at the fat man's table, trying not to be seen glancing. There was definitely something more to this man than met the eye.

A waiter interrupted their meal to offer Mr. Cobblepot a note on a silver palver. The fat man had taken the note with a grunt and glanced at its contents and then looked over at a bearded man in a cheap-looking suit standing near the entrance to the foyer. He'd folded the note and placed it in his waistcoat pocket and then turned to Bruce.

"Excuse me a moment, please, young sir," he'd said. "It would appear I have some pressing business that cannot wait. I shall return momentarily."

Bruce had nodded politely and watched with increasing suspicion as the fat man waddled over to talk to the bearded man. Nobody smiled at the fat man's gait. Nobody laughed.

Bruce watched their conversation. The other man's beard made it difficult to read his lips, but Bruce was certain he caught the words "turned red" and "a little over a month ago." Mr. Cobblepot's response was short and peremptory. There was no mistaking the words formed by his scowling lips.

"Make certain he has an unfortunate accident."

Bruce had later discovered that the fat man — "Oz, the Great and Terrible," as they called him — had been for years the CIA's premier Cold War spymaster, the kind of man who made things happen and guaranteed results so long as you didn't ask questions. But the rub was that neither State nor CIA had ever cared to know how it was that Oswald C. Cobblepot's operations never had problems smuggling people or secrets, or why Oswald C. Cobblepot's men were more likely to die of accidents but certainly never defected to the Reds. Nobody ever asked why break lines failed and intelligence leaks were quickly plugged when Oswald C. Cobblepot was assigned to an embassy. You didn't look gift horses in the mouth.

Neither State nor the CIA had ever truly realized what kind of a man Mr. Oswald C. Cobblepot was. They didn't see the fear in people's eyes, see the way people stepped aside and durst not laugh at the fat man with the umbrella and the top hat. They had never truly known why the local black marketeers had been quite so keen to cooperate with the Agency's schemes and wet work.

But on that night in Vienna, Bruce knew. He watched the fat man in the white waistcoat and bow tie and the black tailcoat waddle across the restaurant back to his table, having just signed someone's death warrant. He knew it then and there.

It was there, on that night in Vienna, that he first laid eyes on the Penguin.


End file.
